Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks
Deer
reader, I implore you to listen to my tale.
It is one of horror and grief, of immorality and dark magicks. It is something that has changed me, and this
world, forever, and in ways that may not yet be apparent. It is a warning. A curse.
I promise, deer reader, that my tale is the whole and sane truth, as
fantastical as it may seem, and I have refrained from any embellishment of the
events that I will divulge in the following paragraphs.
I
beseech you to take heed.
My
tale begins on a cold and wet October evening, and I must admit that it was far
later than any respectable gentleman would consider acceptable or appropriate. Forgive me, I will not explain my lateness; I
am aware of the rumours surrounding my private life, and they are neither
relevant nor important to my tale, and whatever the tabloids would have you
believe about my personal relationship with the disgraced Sir Reginald Winthorpe,
I stress it has no bearing on the events of that night. I will only concede that he was somewhat
responsible for my lateness and my dishevelled appearance.
I
was in a hurry to get back to my lodgings that night. The rain was only a cold mist, though I could
observe a storm maturing in the distance, black ominous clouds boiling above
the forest just outside the city. I
hadn’t had the forethought to carry my umbrella, only my cane, and I didn’t
relish the thought of being caught out in the expected deluge.
The
streets were quiet, strangely forlorn of their usual clientele. I didn’t consider this too odd; I surmised
that the ruffians, dolly mops and mollys, and those undesirables that often
dressed the roadside, had sought shelter from the coming storm. Hindsight makes me wonder if the true reason
was the sinister destiny that was to cast its shadow over that night.
It
had sauntered out of the shadows, the beast, and into the dim lamplight, with
seemingly no intent to shock me, yet shocked I had been.
I’d
struck out at the thing with my cane, hitting down at its skull with deadly
force beget by my fright. Unfounded
fright, it seemed. The innocent fawn
died instantly.
I
won’t torment you, deer reader, with a morbid description of the pained bleat
it emitted with its dying breath, or the terrified glaze in its eyes as the
spark of life extinguished. I won’t tell
you how its small body collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its
strings slashed. There was no blood, but
the dent in its crown left no doubt as to its fate.
I
had killed it.
One
does not expect a young deer, nor an adult deer, to be wandering the streets, particularly
at night. I had never expected to cross
paths with one in this city; I had only ever encountered them on summer
constitutionals in the countryside, and even then, it was a rare occurrence. I’d seen foxes and rats trawling the streets
at night, but never deer.
That
is the excuse I tell myself to this day for why I did what I did. For why I dispatched the poor creature in my
momentary fear.
There
is no excuse for the deplorable actions I undertook afterward.
At
this point I need to pause my tale and provide some context to my life and
background, which may go someways to explaining my motivations. Though, in truth, I cannot tell you why I did
it, for even I did not really understand; I may only be lying to myself to ease
my troubled conscience.
As
a child my mother would read to me every night.
Fairy stories. Stories of
transformation, of other worlds just beyond our own, of immortals and magic. Spirits hiding in nature, watching us,
judging us worthy of heaven. Or unworthy. Perhaps that is why I sought out the macabre. Perhaps not.
I had not been immune to sin even before that night, and I never would
be again.
I
never stopped believing in those stories.
My
favourite of my mother’s fables, that I often fondly recall since her passing,
was that of a fairy prince that had been transformed into a fawn, cursed by his
father to learn humility. Though it is
only through love that he returns to his true form. This tale struck close to my heart because my
own father had been distant and angry during my childhood and barely
acknowledged me even on his deathbed.
He’d always been ashamed of me and what I became. My father took that shame to his grave.
It
was the story of the fawn that came to mind as I stood in the gloomy street on
that wet autumn evening and stared down at the corpse of the innocent beast.
I
felt overwhelming remorse at my actions.
I
have mentioned, deer reader, that I had not been immune to sin, but it may surprise
you to hear that I have previously employed use of a hag and her dark magicks. I fear my life would be far more scandalous
than the simple sordid rumours about myself and Sir Reginald, if not for her
occult assistance, without which it is likely I would be telling you this story
as I turn the crank in jail.
I
understand that ‘hag’ often conjures up a crooked crone, but I assure you that
she was anything but. My hag was a
beautiful young maiden, though wise beyond her years. I still remember the knowing look in her eyes,
as if she knew what I required of her that night, as I stood on the threshold
of her home at the edge of the city, soaked through, for the rain had picked up
as the storm approached, holding the beaten creature in my arms and holding
back my tears.
I’d
watched in awe and anticipation, warming and drying myself near her fireplace,
as she cast sorcerous spells and hellish hexes over the corpse, as she poured thaumaturgical
tinctures down its throat, rubbed ungodly unguents into its skin. She’d warned me that there were no
guarantees, that not every soul could return from the void, but I’d gripped
tight to hope, even as the storm, perhaps an omen of what was to come, reached
the city and thundered and roared above our heads.
Her
efforts, deer reader, were for naught.
I
paid my dues and departed into the tumultuous night, holding the dead fawn, whose
life had been cut short by my rash actions, tight against my chest as I faced
the wind and the rain. The heavens
poured. Lightning graced the skies,
heralded by thunder. My grief consumed
me as much as the storm enveloped me and my deceased charge.
I
wandered for I didn’t know how long, trudged through the squall, freezing and
wet, until I found myself at the edge of the forest where I’d first seen the
black clouds that now devoured the firmament above.
I
knew what I needed to do. I would bury
the poor beast, deep in the forest, return it to whence it came.
I
recall being somewhat grateful for the cover of the trees, sheltered from the
wind and rain, as I walked my dark fated path.
The storm raged above the canopy, crashing a syncopated rhythm through
the flora; it deafened me, forced me to dwell on only my own thoughts, my guilt,
my memories of fables about the princely fawn and of the reality of my wanton
killing of the deer in the streets of the city.
I’d
wanted nothing more than to be washed of my sins, or at least of the sin I’d
committed against nature this night, to lay this child to rest and pray for its
entry to heaven, but, deer reader, my goodly intentions paved an inevitable
path.
I’d
tripped, caught my foot against a stray branch or stone, and the dead little
deer had been freed from my arms. I’d
found my balance quickly, my hands bracing against a nearby tree, but the fawn
had not been so lucky. I’d inadvertently
thrown the creature across the forest floor, its limp body splashing into the
muddy ground ahead.
I’d
cried out in anguish, my words overwhelmed by the cacophony of the storm.
The
unfortunate creature deserved more than being left out in the rain alone, and I
fully intended to continue my task.
Something stopped me, deer reader.
Perhaps some sixth sense. Perhaps
my soaked skin restricted my muscles.
Perhaps a ghostly hand gripped my heart and saved me.
The
body of the baby deer twitched. Then its
legs kicked out against the muddy forest floor.
I
wondered, for a moment, if it had been my imagination, a trick of the gloomy
light, hallucinations of my tired brain, but no. Remember, deer reader, that I told you that I
would tell you the whole and sane truth.
It
lived.
The
fawn, formerly deceased by my own hand, clambered unsteadily to its feet as if
it were a newborn. I watched, stuck to
the spot, rain still breaching the leaves overhead, thunder rolling, occasional
flashes of lightning illuminating the deer and its caved in skull.
I
want to say that I felt some elation in that moment, joy that the animal was
alive, glee at my guilt resolved; I tried to force the feeling into my heart,
but only an ominous sense of dread gripped my gut.
The
fawn was staring at me, one eye distorted by the concave head. It stood defiantly in the rain, unblinking,
unmoving, knowing what I did, accusing me of its murder and the depraved dark
acts I’d subjected to its vulnerable body in my attempt at atonement. This beast was no prince in disguise.
It
was a devil.
Thunder
rumbled above us. Me and it, both frozen
against the night. Me, in terror, and
it, like a predator deliberating its prey.
I wanted to run, wanted to retreat to the safety of the city, but I
could not will myself to move.
Lightning
shimmered in the creature’s eyes, and I will swear, deer reader, on my beloved
mother’s grave that the glaring pupils lit up with a supernatural crimson glow
in that moment.
Then,
the fawn bleat a blood-curdling malevolent cry against the storm, against my
presence and my actions that dark night, and disappeared into the forest with an
uneasy gallop.
I
never saw the damnable beast again, despite my every effort, and despite its
curse that followed me this past decade.
Those close to me died, sporadically over the years, each death sudden
and unexplained. Even my precious Sir
Reginald Winthorpe had succumbed. You
might accuse me of seeing patterns where there are none, of self-fulfilling
prophecies, or of madness brought about by my guilt. But none could explain how each friend, each
family member, my lover, had been found collapsed in the forest, their crowns crushed,
like the very beast I’d attacked on that cold and wet October evening.
I
know, deep in my soul, that it will come for me soon.
And
so, deer reader, while I still live to tell you of my terrible tale, I entreat
you to take note, to never act rashly against the creatures of this Earth, to
never invoke unnatural dark magicks; one may find a prince, or one may find a
devil. And if you ever see a ghastly
deer, with its skull battered and bashed, and red glowing eyes, I bid that you
run.
The End
